


shiver

by reneewvlkers



Series: homeostasis [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Just dialogue, M/M, again this is my version of a short fic, even if this finishes before that, it's not actually as bad as the books i swear, timelines are wacky, you will really want to read wildfire first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 18:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10882740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reneewvlkers/pseuds/reneewvlkers
Summary: Fire crackles behind him, but he shivers. It takes until the fire reaches the embers and he’s cold to the core, cold to the point that he’s sure he’ll never be warm again, and the smell of smoke (too sweet, and he doesn’t want to think about why), until he’s able to mutter to himself: “I am Neil Abram Josten. My birthday is March 31st. I can’t be deceived.”(Neil may be blessed, but it's not enough. He's not enough, not without a catalyst.)





	shiver

**Author's Note:**

> as always, any dialogue you recognise belongs to nora, not me

It’s not until Nathaniel and his mother have been away from what they called home for months that Neil catches sight of his reflection and has to stop in his tracks, heart trying to beat its way free from his chest.

Mary stops a few steps forward and turns to give Nathaniel a harsh look. They don’t stop for anyone or anything less significant than the grave, and whatever’s in that shop window doesn’t qualify.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, trying to catch up to her on legs too short to carry him anywhere fast.

Her eyes ask him a question and she doesn’t start moving. She was never a bad mother, just someone making impossible decisions in the worst of situations. At least, Nathaniel never thought so.

“It’s just-” Nathaniel sighs, tugging at auburn hair. “I look like him.”

Mary smiles slightly, the smile of someone who might just have a solution. She gathers her breath and says confidently, a touch too loud, “You don’t look like anyone in particular.”

Nathaniel frowns. The phrasing is weird, a little too rehearsed, like she’d thought of exactly how to put that sentence together before and she’s using it even though it doesn’t entirely fit. Then she gestures back to a window, and he looks and-

He doesn’t look like Nathan’s son anymore. There’s no flash of red and blue; in fact, he can’t notice a single distinctive feature on his face. He looks away and doesn’t remember what he saw. He looks back a few times and that stays the truth. He meets Mary’s gaze with a wide-eyed expression of happiness that suits his age perfectly.

“So we can go now?” Mary asks gently, teasingly.

(Nathaniel wondered why she didn’t do it for her own face, but he didn’t ask. There are a lot of things about magic he doesn’t know, and he’s not sure how much Mary could answer. Sometimes, it seems safer not to ask.)

Mary performing magic for Nathaniel was a rarity. Every time she tried, she succeeded, but the attempts were few and far between. More often, she’d place Nathaniel’s hands on the tapestry of the universe and encourage him to play.

“I’ve always wanted to be ginger,” Mary says, with intent in her eyes.

“You’ve always been ginger,” Nathaniel echoes, because he knows what Mary wants, but he doesn’t know how this works, really.

Mary shakes her head, mousy brown hair swinging with the movement.

“I’m feeling more 5”8 today,” Mary says, looking into a full-length mirror.

Nathaniel looks at her closely, and imagines how she would look if she were that tall. When the image is fleshed out, he closes his eyes and says, “You are 5”8.” He doesn’t want to open his eyes again in case it didn’t work. But when he does, her height matches his imagination, and there’s almost a smile on Mary’s face. He can barely imagine her being shorter.

Mary peeks out a corner to a restaurant that is too fancy for them, and sighs. “We aren’t dressed for this.”

Nathaniel looks between them, and says, “We’ll blend right in.” There’s no time to hesitate or think too much. He blinks, and Mary’s in a sophisticated black dress; it’s smart, but not spectacular.

Mary blinks a little in confusion, but after giving Nathaniel a quick once over, she smiles and straightens her back. “You’re getting good at this.”

They’re in a damaged car that’s creaking more with every mile that passes. It won’t survive. Seattle’s behind them now, but the chaos it created is still with him - the scratches on the car, the bullets lodged in its body, the blood on its seats. “We’re too easily convinced,” Mary says, pale, but resolute as always. “We have to do better.”

Nathaniel blinks. “We can’t cast blessings.” They’re a persistent kind of magic, which means it’s more than a single string of fate. It’s reweaving every part of the tapestry that touches you.

“Yes, we can,” Mary replies, voice strong even though there’s no magic to it. It’s a truth that didn’t shake the world at all. It was already true.

Neil can’t take his eyes off the road, and his focus is torn. Even if Mary says nothing, he knows the damage is probably too much. But he pushes it away; that doesn’t help now. There’s a long stretch of road in front of him and it starts to blur. He imagines the world being as simple and straightforward as that. He can’t lie; the idea of becoming impervious to deceit is a compelling one. It would undoubtedly be useful. “We won’t believe lies,” he says, but even the word ‘we’ brings Mary back to mind, and his voice shakes. He tries again, and once more, and Mary tries to whisper along with him, but she’s shrinking into her seat.

It’s an impossible task. He channels his desperation into a different truth, “You won’t die here.”

“Oh, Nathaniel,” Mary says. “It’s too late now. The dice have been cast. The string has been cut. It’s not a matter of if, it’s when.”

Nathaniel focuses on the road again. It’s all he can do to keep going.

“Don’t look back, don’t slow down, and don’t trust anyone. Be anyone but yourself, and never be anyone for too long.” The words echo as soon as she says them, and don’t stop.

Fire crackles behind him, but he shivers. It takes until the fire reaches the embers and he’s cold to the core, cold to the point that he’s sure he’ll never be warm again, and the smell of smoke (too sweet, and he doesn’t want to think about why), until he’s able to mutter to himself: “I am Neil Abram Josten. My birthday is March 31st. I can’t be deceived.”

He has to repeat it a few times, but it might have stuck the first time. He doesn’t know. His face is so numb that he’s unaware of if he’s even spoken. He’s not sure if sticking his blessing onto the end of other, more easily manipulated truths will help, and he knows he could have phrased it better - rehearsed his words, the way his mother had - but regardless, he can believe it now.

There’s nothing here; it’s destruction and words that only have meaning if he gives it to them.

He gave everything he had to the words.

Neil makes it to Millport, even though he’s not sure how. He thought that Arizona was supposed to be hot, but the desert is cold and brutal in a way that settles amongst the cold inside him like it belongs. The stars stretch above him and he’s never felt more alone.

But the school believes him when he says he’s Neil Josten and registration goes more smoothly than it should given he doesn’t have a parent. He just asks, he just tells them the truth, and he gets what he needs. Nothing’s amiss from the surface, he makes certain. He knows this is why Mary insisted he practice, so that he could survive anything.

But there’s the disconnect and a gaping hole inside of him, and he’s merely playing a new part, no matter what he says.

But there are posters for the school’s Exy team, who apparently need more players. He tells himself he’s trying out for more reliable access to showers, but he knows if that were true he’d choose a sport he has no knowledge of, and one that required more brute strength, less thought or speed, so he’d be less likely to excel.

He can’t resist. It’s the one thing that makes sense, even playing a new role. It’s the only time he feels like he fits. With his chest heaving with laboured breath, sweat dripping off of strands of too-long hair, his fingertips regain feeling. The Arizona heat finally hits him in full force.

Against all odds, he makes it to the end of the year. He’s set to graduate. He never had a plan for after this year, but he knows his future is as bleak as his past: run.

And this time, there won’t be Exy. He can’t make the same mistake twice.

Hernandez, though, didn’t know Neil’s future with the same certainty heavy in his bones. He worried and meddled where he shouldn’t have, and Neil can only blame himself for not covering his tracks better, because he’s led his past right to him.

He makes the same mistake twice. But there’s something that might be care in Wymack’s eyes, and there’s passion in Kevin’s, and despite the blank nothing in Andrew’s eyes, there’s _something_ in the way he swings at Neil, the way he presses, the things he says.

Neil says yes.

Despite Neil’s shield from deceit, the Foxes are still shrouded in mystery. Every one of them has a story of their own and a million reasons not to be here, but they are. The very fact that they try so hard to maintain some form of cohesion in spite of their obvious fractures. Despite himself, Neil is drawn in.

It’s new to tug on the strings that bond people, and not fates, but he realises quickly that even if it’s not as simple it’s equally rewarding. He pulls the Foxes closer to one another, twists their frayed cords to hold firmer; watches as they become worthy of their classification.

He says they won’t lose another match, and dares himself not to tug on the universe, just to rely on his team’s determination and passion. He believes in them. He didn’t know he believed in anything except himself.

(There are threats still; his history continues to chase him, and he feels the phantom of his father’s breath on his neck. He doesn’t think he can stop that. There are some strings that can’t be manipulated - things that are all but inevitable. Instead, he faces the truth that he’s chosen his fate. He will follow through with all his spirit. That’s the only way to make sure anything will stick.)

Someone draws Neil closer. All of them try - invitations for evening plans, Kevin’s night practices, Wymack’s appraising, almost concerned glances - but only one person tugs Neil closer with each blank glance.

Neil doesn’t know what Andrew is. He’s quiet and honest in a way Neil doesn’t recognise - his truths never shake the world, they just _are_. It’s refreshing to find someone who won’t move the ground under Neil’s feet. He’s still.

By Andrew’s side, Neil feels as though he can finally stop shivering, like the cold in his bones might eventually dissipate.

“I’m not your answer,” Andrew insists, and Neil knows that. But Andrew is a fascination, and the way he stills Neil is all but irresistible.

 _It’s dangerous,_ a voice insists inside Neil’s mind. But there’s only a few grains of sand left at the top of Neil’s hourglass, and he wants to know what it’d be like if Andrew wasn’t so careful all the time. He wants to know Andrew. He wants to unravel the tangle of threads around him.

And he can’t deny that Andrew’s the catalyst for everything. He’s the reason for it all; Neil facing Kevin and, later, Riko, his foray into an actual social life, going to the Nest and bringing his end closer.

(Riko pushes and tells Neil he’ll always be his father’s son. Neil doesn’t feel like he believes it, not really, but the world responds and gives him back to the red and blue that haunts his nightmares. Neil shakes when he sees himself in the mirror, but he doesn’t speak it away. He doesn’t want to face his life half-heartedly anymore; he will feel and weather through even the horrors.)

He tugs, pulls the - _something_ \- between him and Andrew into a leash, pretends that the weight of it isn’t a noose, and watches Andrew give to him. He acts as though it’s for the benefit of the team, ignores that every tug brings him closer and closer to Andrew.

Close enough to kiss.

But he doesn’t say anything - can’t say anything - to make it stay. This proximity, as with everything in Neil’s life, is short-lived and it drifts away like smoke on the air.

Neil tries something new. He tries to tell the truths that won’t change any world but his, tells them without prompting. Andrew doesn’t ask and doesn’t show any interest, and then asks more of Neil. Neil says _yes_ , putting all the gravitas behind that word as he can, pulls at the strings of the world to convince Andrew that this is true.

Neil has practiced his truths, but he hasn’t practiced being _known_ in this way. Andrew pushes him down and tells him to _stay_ and he does. It’s all he wants to do - he wants the stillness and the warmth Andrew gives him.

Time stretches, as though Neil’s grasp of reality has stretched to his thoughts, but it’s not endless.

Truths don’t have to be spoken: there’s truth in the salt of his teammates’ sweat, there’s truth in the sound of Matt’s laughter, there’s truth in Andrew jolting at the touch of Neil’s lips on his neck. Nothing feels more true than Andrew’s lips on his, his hands in Andrew’s hair; Andrew’s firm grip and heavy eyes.

Neil twists the world in the same ways he always has, adding strength to something that's already true  - “This isn’t worthless.”

“There is no ‘this’. This is nothing.”

“And I am nothing. And as you’ve always said, you want nothing.”

Every kiss is a victory; they make each stolen second last longer and they warm him from the inside out. There’s a small ember growing inside of him - it can’t last, none of this can, but it’s better than the gnawing emptiness of a lonely life running.

He watches Andrew’s face, almost warm in the glow of sunlight, and convinces Andrew to let him stand alone. Andrew doesn’t want to let him go. It’s something almost tangible, and it tugs Neil even closer, but it’s bittersweet because Neil knows why he’s releasing this particular string.

It’s not a moment too soon - his past corners him in an unfamiliar changing room, and he feels like he’s going to drown. He looks at the Foxes, his new makeshift family, and swallows the truths he won’t have a chance to speak with more regret than he’d ever felt before.

Andrew senses the silent truths.

Neil looks into Andrew’s hazel eyes; as always, their empty but for a reflection. Neil doesn’t see anything but a short, gory future. His breath is rough in his throat, but he borrows Andrew’s meaningful, empty truths: “Thank you. You were amazing.”

Time doesn’t stretch. Neil has used all of his luck, and he has no words to pause here forever, nothing can rewind the tape until they’re back in the bus. Neil would give everything for an endless bus ride with the Foxes.

But he moves forward, marches to his death with as much grace as he can muster.

They’ll figure it out eventually. The truth will always prevail.

Lola burns and scratches the _Neil_ out of him until nothing’s left but the boy Nathan tried to crush under his thumb. He lets his fond memories of the past year slip away, glad he isn’t bringing them down with him into the cellar. He lets his heart freeze over once again.

The boy left behind doesn’t flinch when he sees his father, but he follows orders blindly like they had been programmed into him. Fear constricts his throat. _Children should be seen and not heard_ ; even though Nathan is in front of him, the words are a ghostly whisper from his past. The boy never knew how to bend the world to his will, he’d never been allowed to try.

Nathan orders his son, demands the truth, and he’s given the ones that don’t matter, the ones that would be true no matter what. Then he prescribes Nathaniel’s fate to be a slow death, as he had always known.

He doesn’t want it. He’s surprised by the ferocity of the emotion. “No,” he says, but no one is there to listen.

“Lola,” Nathan says. “Would you like the pleasure of crippling him?”

“No,” Nathaniel says, stronger, but not strong enough. Lola moves, and Nathaniel has to dodge fate with frantic legs.

“If you do not sit the fuck still I will gouge your eyes out,” Nathan says, calmly, horrifically. He could be good at commanding the world - Nathaniel never knew either way - but he chooses to use the uglier method of control. The hope that Nathaniel can yet change his fate is nothing more than a small ember, but it exists. There only needs to be a spark.

He freezes, still a slave to his father’s whims. “Please,” he whispers desperately. “Please don’t.”

It’s not enough. “Can I?” Lola asks, voice animated.

“We’ll slit your ankles, then your knees. And if you try to crawl away I will take your arms from you too. Do you understand?”

Nathaniel understands, but it isn’t bone-deep. It isn’t definite. He doesn’t scream. He holds onto what’s left of him, and imagines a scenario where he escapes this - imagines any way he can walk up those stairs and into the light again.

The cold inside him chafes. With the reminder of what currently is, he can’t change anything. He needs to _believe_ he can make it out of this, needs to believe he has a future after this, but he can’t. Nathan is all there is. This night is his last. His body will only continue to cool.

 _No_ . He remembers what it’s like to be warm. He thinks of Andrew and the Foxes one last time, remembers the sweat on his face and the ache in his arms, remembers the roar of the crowd and the scratch in his throat when he yells victory. He remembers a swelling in his chest and the forbidden thought: _What if this was forever?_

“Please,” he says again, memories making him stronger. “Just let me go, just let me go, I’m not-”

“Lola,” Nathan interrupts, but he doesn’t finish.

Bullets rip through one reality, and Nathaniel sees glimpses of a future once more.

“My name is Nathaniel Wesninski and my father is dead,” he says, and it’s with relief that he realises it’s not something he has to make true.

A truth: Nathaniel won’t disappear a second time without explaining everything. The agents assigned to him don’t want to believe this, but that’s never stopped the truth before.

Another truth: the Foxes will wait for him. He didn’t expect them to be in a hotel room in Baltimore, but there they are, and they’re as offended as Nathaniel is that he’s only going to be given twenty minutes to clear all the lies clouding the space between them.

An unwanted truth: this is goodbye. This truth aches. Nathaniel doesn’t know where to start.

Then he knows. “Where’s And-”

Andrew’s hand on the back of Nathaniel’s neck chases the chill from his veins and he starts to thaw all over again. Andrew pulls bandages off and inspects Neil in silence, and it feels somehow like home in this unfamiliar hotel room.

“I’m sorry,” Nathaniel says. He’s sorry he has to give this up.

Andrew’s rage sparks a fire, and it’s a protective circle around them. The others are in the room, and that’s everything; but they’re not _here_. This moment is for him and Andrew. Andrew’s bottomless rage is assurance that this is something, that he matters, somehow; that this is true.

“You are a Fox,” Andrew says, and that’s true, too.

“Andrew, they want to take me away from here. They want to enroll me in the Witness Protection Program so my father’s people can’t find me. I don’t want- if you tell me to leave, I’ll go.”

Andrew tugs at the collar of Nathaniel’s sweatshirt, and though the fabric holds, he catches a frayed thread. Another string runs between the two of them, stronger than the rest. “You aren’t going anywhere,” Andrew says, and though there’s no magic to the words, though the rest of the room don’t believe it for a second, it’s enough for Nathaniel. He believes he has the choice to stay, and that opportunity is enough for Nathaniel to make it real.

“Neil,” Wymack says. “Talk to me. What do you want?”

“I want- I know I shouldn’t stay, but I can’t- I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose any of you. I don’t want to be Nathaniel anymore. I want to be Neil for as long as I can.” The truth is jagged and bloody, and there’s no power in Nathaniel’s voice. Not yet.

He promises the Foxes he will come back to them. He promises more truths to Andrew, as many as he can give. He promises himself the chance to make the one Truth that he really wants.

“Can I really be Neil again?” Nathaniel asks, because he knows the only future he wants is wrapped and intertwined in Andrew. He can’t cast this blessing without him.

“I told Neil to stay. Leave Nathaniel buried in Baltimore with his father,” Andrew says, rough, unrehearsed.

Nathaniel looks out the window at the town in which he was raised, and tries to see the future. He sees orange, and feels the warmth of his chosen family, and he almost smiles. He traces a key into his palm and murmurs, “Neil Abram Josten.”

The last of the cold leaves Neil with a shiver. Suddenly, Nathaniel is nothing more than a bad dream; the future stretches before him, bright and warm like it never has been before.

With Andrew, anything feels possible. He wasn’t born but sculpted out of ice; even so, he feels like he could catch on fire.

Maybe he will.

The choice is his.


End file.
